


The Queen of the Night

by manatee_patronus



Category: Amadeus (1984)
Genre: F/M, Magic Flute, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Tickling, Twist at the end, tried to make Mozart as obnoxious as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatee_patronus/pseuds/manatee_patronus
Summary: Mozart has a sexual rendezvous planned after the premiere of the Magic Flute with Josefina Schwarzkopf, the Queen of the Night. Little does he suspect that his wife Constanze has her own night of pleasure planned for him, including an erotic punishment for his time spent with the other woman.





	The Queen of the Night

“The vengeance of hell cooks in my heart!”

 

Like a dark butterfly, she expanded on the stage in her glittering dress. Josefina Schwarzkopf…the Queen of the Night. The only one he had ever intended the role for. 

 

Her dress was dark blue, embroidered with golden stars and moons that glittered in the spotlight as she moved. The skirts blossomed out below her waist, giving her a formidable figure that seemed to take up half the stage, but the bodice was snug enough for him to see her breasts heaving beneath it as she drew breath to sing. The dark curls that he loved were tamed and teased up into her crown, which was topped by a shining crescent moon. Her face was painted white, her eyelids and lips were painted blue.

 

With a slice of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s hand, the strings thundered out the D minor intervals between her infernal declarations. 

 

"Death and despair!" 

 

Another downbeat, another dark chord from the orchestra in the pit.

 

"Death and despair flame around me here."

 

The girl who played Pamina, he couldn't remember her name, cowered away from Josefina, and he was sure that only half of it was acting. She was a waif of a girl, no real color or personality to her. Josefina was a woman of power. The royal and celestial title he'd given her for this opera had just brought it out more - she was intimidating.

 

And here was his musical trick. It would have been easy to keep the whole aria dark after this thunderous opening. But more surprising - more memorable - to convert this woman's murderous intentions into a light refrain in a major key - turn the light on the Queen of the Night so that she could dazzle everyone by stepping so nimbly between two moods and two octaves.

 

"If Sarastro does not feel death's pain through you," Josefina advanced, Pamina backed away. She pressed a knife into her stage daughter's hands. 

 

"Then you will be my daughter nevermore!" Mozart didn't dare turn to look at the audience behind him as he conducted, but he could feel them take in a breath in unison, as Josefina's "nevermore" climbed higher and higher in a series of staccato 8th notes, until she could even put a singing bird to shame. They had never heard anything like this in an opera before.

 

Here was his other musical trick. These notes, the pitch of her voice, the ecstasy in her face, and the strain of her body were all familiar to him...he'd made her sing like this on other occasions, though she was not accompanied by music in any of those occasions. She, too, recognized this joke that he had designed for her, and her dark eyes found his as she finished the run. She smiled, and he could tell that she was glowing with pride for getting to sing a musical orgasm that was modeled after her organic one.

 

At the end of the aria, the audience erupted in thunderous applause. Mozart winked at Josefina, who was now offstage. She returned his wink. They had a rendezvous planned backstage after the show - he was going to bathe her, as performing often made her feel dirty and sweaty. Mozart turned and bowed to his applause. On his third bow, he noticed that his wife had left her seat in the balcony.

 

***

 

The cool breeze of Vienna against Mozart's face was a welcome relief when he finally left the theater a few hours later. After the show, there'd been about an hour of speaking with patrons at the foot of the stage while the orchestra and singers dispersed and changed clothes, then the reception in the Grand Hall of the theater. Here, the emperor had done him the service of providing a lengthy, boring review of the opera, peppering his analysis with advice for how to improve it.

 

Throughout this exchange, Josefina teased him from across the room by slowly eating a breadstick in a very deliberate manner. Mozart crossed his legs and tried very hard to listen to the emperor's arrogant suggestions. 

 

"And that Queen of the Night aria definitely needs an overhaul, Wolfgang." The emperor was grinning at him slyly beneath his powdered wig as though Mozart had made the aria horrible to personally prank him. "I mean, the people were shocked by it, which was why it got a big reaction, but the shock factor does not make a work of art great. Often, quite to the contrary. Why, those staccato parts high up in the register," the emperor glanced around to make sure that no ladies were nearby, and then leaned in and whispered, "Frankly, Wolfgang, it sounded like your soprano was having an _orgasm_  on the stage."

 

Mozart erupted in a nervous giggle and said, "What a thought, Your Highness, what a thought! I'll definitely orgas- I mean, organize your suggestions and work them into the current manuscript."

 

Mozart finally was able to take his leave of the emperor and cross the room to join Josefina, who had by now finished her breadstick. His wife, Constanze, was still nowhere to be found, and a few patrons had asked about her. He supposed that she had probably gotten tired and gone home early.

 

"So," Josefina said, her voice cracking a little. Noticing this, she laughed and pressed a hand to her throat. "Your opera is going to kill me. Anyway." Her dark eyes bore into his. "Do we still have time to go backstage for a bit?"

 

One at a time, so as not to draw attention to their togetherness, they slipped out of the Great Hall and made their way back to the stage.

 

Now, after an hour of giggling, caressing, bathing together, and non-musical orgasms, Mozart was walking the four blocks from the theater to his house. As it was now quite late, he found himself stepping in and out of pools of light cast by the lamp-posts that stood sentinel on the curving street.

 

He was humming one of the darker arias from an upcoming opera that he was working on. The aria would be sung by a baritone, a specter arriving to condemn the anti-hero of the opera to hell...

 

As Mozart rounded the widest curve created by some protruding apartment buildings, he found himself on the edge of total darkness. Two blocks down, past his house, he could see ignited lamp posts again, but the entire sidewalk between here and there was in pitch-black shadow. Mozart cursed the lamp lighters, the wind, whatever had caused these lights to be blown out.

 

As he hesitated on the edge of the dark street, Mozart thought he saw something move in the shadows, near a tree that he could barely make out in the darkness. "Is someone there?" he asked. 

 

No one responded. He shivered at the idea of someone watching him from the shadows, but tried to shake the idea away. He was regressing to his boyhood fears. In order to get him to practice, his father had once told him, "Idle hands are the Devil's instruments," and suggested that if he didn't practice, the Devil's hosts might come to claim him. It had been innocent storytelling on his father's part, but for some reason it had gotten under his skin, and it had taken several years for him not to be afraid that the shadowy, faceless figures of demons would suddenly crawl out of dark places, seize him, and take him away.

 

Mozart gave a high-pitched, nervous giggle at the ridiculousness of his sudden fear. He stepped out into the shadow and walked down the street, continuing to hum his aria.

 

It was as he crossed the street and reached the corner of the building beside his that he suddenly felt hands grip his arms and circle around his waist. Another hand covered his mouth before he had a chance to cry out. Struggling and looking around rapidly, he saw maybe four people wearing black robes that blended in with the night and hoods whose cowls hid their faces entirely. 

 

Gently but irresistibly, his arms were pressed to his sides and his legs were forced together, someone bound him with what seemed to be thick rope, and he was lifted like a log onto their shoulders. Someone had also stuffed some cloth into his mouth. All he could do was gaze up at the stars as the group carried him quickly down the street.

 

He was very surprised to recognize his own ceiling lintel a moment later when the group carried him through a doorway. They had taken him to his own house - they must know who he was. His heart pounding, Mozart did not know whether he should feel reassured or more frightened by this knowledge - maybe a jealous rival was planning to kill him, or torture him until he handed over his opera manuscript for Don Giovanni...

 

The group paused in the threshold of what he recognized as his music room. One of the shadow people moved away and seemed to be shifting furniture. Then Mozart was lowered on his back onto two piano benches that had been pushed together. 

 

"Hold his shoulders while I take off his pants," a familiar, melodic female voice said.

 

Mozart's head jerked toward the black-cowled figure who now tugged at his trousers. "Stanzi?" He exclaimed incredulously.

 

After removing his pants, she lowered her hood and smiled at him, her brown curls falling around her cheeks. "Afraid so! How has your evening been, Herr Mozart?"

 

Mozart couldn't resist joking even in such a grave situation. "Well, it would have been better if Frau Mozart hadn't run out on her husband's premiere, and then tied him to his piano benches."

 

For that was what they were doing now - tying his naked ankles to the piano bench legs so that he could not move his legs an inch. Cold air hit the bare soles of his feet.

 

"Hold his arms," Stanzi instructed the other robed figures. Then she began unbuttoning the flowing shirt that he liked to wear to concert premieres. "My evening also could have been better, if Herr Mozart had come home directly after his concert and fucked his wife instead of the harlot that he painted and paraded on the stage for all to see."

 

"Now Stanzi," Mozart chided her. "That's really not fair. Josefina is not a harlot. I only paid her for her operatic services. Hey, what are you doing?"

 

They were pulling his arms up, away from his sides, fastening them to the piano bench legs so that they were stretched above his head and his armpits were entirely vulnerable.

 

Stanzi ignored his question. As his right wrist was tied to the bench, one of the other hooded people asked, "Is he going to be all right, tied up this tight?"

 

"Sure he will," Stanzi said. "He's flexible. Remember when he played Johann Sebastian Bach upside down and blindfolded?"

 

"Yeah!" one of the others exclaimed.

 

" _That_ was a great party."

 

As she unzipped her black robe, Stanzi told the other specters, "Thanks guys, I can take it from here." Underneath the robe, she was wearing her white, silky slip that she often wore to bed and which he loved caressing at night.

 

The other figures pulled down their hoods and took a seat against the far wall, laughing and jeering softly at Mozart. Now that they had removed their hoods, he recognized them as Stanzi's friend Francesca and two bassists, Ezra and Giorgio, that regularly performed in the pit with him. In fact, Ezra had been at the concert tonight.

 

"Have fun, Wolfgang!" one of them waved to him.

 

Now Constanze was kneeling beside where Mozart lay strapped to the piano benches. He shifted a little in his bonds. He was comfortable, but he couldn't move an inch. 

 

"Now Stanzi," he said nervously, "If fucking is all you want, then why don't you just let me up so I can give you a nice, good old-fashioned -hahahaHEY!! Stop that!"

 

Stanzi's finger was hovering in the hollow of his armpit, barely touching the skin, wiggling back and forth, alternating this treatment with little ticklish digs into his soft skin. Mozart was helplessly ticklish. The slightest touch in one of his sensitive spots made him feel completely out of control, and if he was loose, his limbs would all lash desperately. However, since he was bound so tight, all he could do was scream with mirth and toss his head back and forth. 

 

"No more tickles, Stanzi!" Mozart gasped as soon as she let up. She was watching him with her eyelids lowered in an expression of lazy amusement. "Please! You know I can't take it, you know I'm too -" a squeal left his lips as one of her hands, hidden from view, tickled his foot. He giggled endlessly as her fingertips brushed his ticklish arches and pinched the pads of his feet just below his toes. 

 

After a few moments, she started to also tickle his other foot with her free hand, so that the cadence of his laughter quickened and he soon became breathless.

 

"OK-ok-ok, gimme a minute!" She stopped again and his giggles finally subsided. He was still panting, and his face was hot. 

 

"Wolfie," Constanze said teasingly. "You know you _love_ being tickled. You can't get enough of it."

 

"But - normally - I - am able - to move!" Mozart protested, his words punctuated by squawks as his wife leaned over him and squeezed the tender skin of his inner thighs, running her hands up and down from his knees to that mysterious, devastating tendon at the top inner part of his thighs, giving his skin little squeezes along the way and drawing more laughter from him. He felt the tips of her hair brush across his chest and stomach as she tickled him.

 

She lowered her face to his tummy, which shook and twitched with his laughter, and kissed it sweetly. He squealed, as this was also a ticklish sensation now mingling with the mixture of sexual pleasure and sheer ticklishness originating from her attentions to his inner thighs. The proximity of her tickling to his penis was having its logical effect - he could feel himself growing increasingly hard and engorged. A warm, pleasant buzzing seemed to pass through his penis as he laughed, as he felt the electrifying tickling sensation thrill through his bound, helpless body.

 

"I love your giggle," she said, nuzzling her face gently into his protruding ribs so that more helpless giggles poured from his mouth. Now his giggles were mixed with moans. He was already aroused, but nothing turned him on more than having his tummy kissed and nibbled. Since it was such a private part of him that hardly anyone ever saw, it felt like the ultimate opening-up, the ultimate blooming, to feel the fluttery sensation of his wife's kisses here, making a ticklish circle around his navel.

 

He found himself arching his back to lift his stomach closer to her lips. Her kisses now traveled back and forth along his bottom ribs and across the hollow between them. Waves of euphoria ebbed and flowed within him, along with the delicious, fluttery lightness that kept him laughing, and the tightness between his legs.

 

She took his penis into her mouth then, driving down until he could feel the back of her throat tickle the tip. He groaned, because the amount of pleasure was almost unbearable. She had barely dipped her head 12 times when he warned her, "I'm cumming, I'm cumming," and she switched to jerking him off with her hand just in time for him to release all the pent-up tension that she had cultivated.

 

He had been so distracted by all of this loveliness that he did not notice that his arms and legs were now free. Stanzi had silently summoned over their friends again, who had untied him as Stanzi had gone down on him. Now, Stanzi cried, "Flip him!"

 

Still half-delirious from orgasm, he felt four pairs of hands seize him and flip him onto his stomach. Now he lay on the carpeted ground, his face to the side. Then he felt his wife straddle his hips, facing toward his legs and feet, and he knew a second too late that he was in trouble.

 

She attacked the excruciatingly ticklish skin at the base of his butt - what she called, "the sweet spot." In the aftermath of orgasm, it was even worse. He could not see or think. His only thought was to get away, and his laughter - at first silent from being so intense, now poured out of him in mad shrieks, accompanied by tears rolling from his eyes. He kicked his feet, twisted his upper torso, and tried to claw himself away from her, but with no success.Soon he ran out of energy and could only collapse on the ground and laugh endlessly as her fingers drilled into random spots on his buttocks and the backs of his thighs.

 

Then inspiration struck him - he felt her legs shift against him as she leaned forward. Sneakily, he reached behind his back and felt for her foot - he encountered the petite thing, curled up in its stocking, with the sole facing upward. He wiggled all of his fingers across it - she squealed and rolled off of him.

 

He pulled himself along the ground, still dazed, until his head was next to her head. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her full on the mouth. He could hear the others say, "I think our job here is done," amid wolf-whistles and friendly jeers. The snap of the door alerted him that he was alone with his wife, lying on the floor together like children.

 

"Don't tell Josefina I called her a harlot, you know I was only joking," she told him seriously.

 

"I won't," Mozart promised. "And what, pray tell, were _you_ up to during the last half of my brilliant opera?"

 

A pink blush beautifully tinged her soft features. "Giorgio and I," she nodded toward where Giorgio had been sitting moments ago, "had some fun."

 

"Oh _did_ you?" Mozart asked with obnoxious emphasis to tease her. She giggled and nodded.

 

"And did Giorgio take good care of my queen?"

 

"Yes, I had a nice time. And I got nice and warmed up for our sexy time."

 

"Speaking of our sexy time, why don't we have an Intermission so we can grab some water, and then proceed to Act II in the bedroom?" 

 

Constanze nuzzled her face into his neck and he stifled another giggle. "Sounds good to me," she said.

 

They helped each other clamber to their feet. As they walked to the kitchen, Mozart found himself humming the upbeat Overture to Le nozze di Figaro.

 

"You know, only narcissists hum their own music all the time," Constanze joked.

 

"What?" said Mozart, who was ahead of her in the hallway. "You'll have to speak up. I can't hear you over the sound of my brilliance." 


End file.
